


The Consulting...Busboy?

by L_Morgan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, First Time, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attends Greg's niece's wedding as his plus one, only to be ditched for a bevy of bridesmaids. Hijinks ensue with a busboy that he initially mistakes for a table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consulting...Busboy?

‘Five more minutes,’ John promised himself as he watched Greg Lestrade - a very drunk Greg Lestrade - flirting with his niece’s bridesmaids, all fifteen of them. Doing his best George Clooney impersonation, Greg was literally drowning in a sea of aquamarine taffeta and if the maid of honor’s expression was anything to go by, mouth-to-mouth was imminent.  ‘You can do anything for five minutes.’

And he had thought attending family weddings as his sister’s date was bad. 

It was nothing compared to attending as the drinking buddy, not-quite-so-close-as-you-used-to-be-friend of the slightly bitter, well into his own cups, recently divorced uncle, who, John could admit, without even having to squint, looked pretty good in his charcoal grey suit. A suit that was about six steps up from the trousers and boxy jackets he wore to Yard, which told John that his ex-wife hadn’t been the one to buy it. 

Greg’s suit aside, John was tired of always getting dumped for the bridesmaids. 

Thus, no more family weddings. 

Period.

“Christ,” John muttered and finished his drink with a loud gulp. As he moved to set the glass down on the hightop table that he had just now noticed - the table shifted, and his glass fell to the ground, shattering against the not-quite, but close enough, cement floor.

“Sorry.”

John turned quickly, losing his balance. Eyes on his feet, first, he looked towards where the table had been, only to see a pair of high top Converse sneakers. They were green, not to mention hideously ugly. And seemed ridiculous in contrast to the white polyester pants, the uniform of bus people everywhere. 

“Good Lord.” John glanced up, face flushing. “I thought you were a table! Sorry about that.”

“That’s what they pay us for,” the kid said. 

For he was a kid. Tall, thin as a rail. He had terrible posture - that, and a single earbud, firmly attached to his right ear.

“Is that an iPod?” John asked, thinking that was safer than commenting on the lolly the kid had in his mouth. Jesus, where do they find the help for these things?

“If I hear 'Hopelessly Devoted to You,' one more time, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” he replied, deadpan. He was entirely understandable, but the words were slightly off, spoken as they were, around what looked like, if the distortion of his jaw was anything to go by, a Blow Pop.

John snorted. He glanced back up: tall, but not as tall as he’d originally thought. Not as tall as Sher--  John stopped that train immediately. Ginger-brown hair, shot through with emerald green, brown eyes, and a tattoo from the base of his ear that disappeared into the collar is his decidedly unpressed shirt.

“Can I get you another?”

John shook his head, not having realized that even though his mind had followed the tattoo down the boy’s neck and had ended up somewhat south of the gutter, his body had stayed exactly where it was. Meaning that he was standing there, staring at this kid’s neck, looking undoubtedly like a perv.

“No.” John shook his head again, a little harder this time. “I think I’m good. But thank you. Thank you for asking.”

“That’s what I get paid for.”

As the kid started away, John called out. “Hey!” He pointed to the glass that he himself had broken. “Shouldn’t you clean that up?”

The kid shrugged, causing overly long bangs to fall across his face. “Not my job.”

Glancing over to see how Greg was faring, and to make sure no one was watching, John squatted down, pulled out his pocket square and picked up as much of the glass as he could.

Muttering about ridiculously tall prats and job descriptions, John found his way into the kitchen, which was, predictably, deserted.

Tossing the glass into the nearest bin, John went over to the slop sink to wash his hands. Just as he realized that he didn’t have a clean towel, one appeared, almost out of thin air.

“If we were in the loo, you’d owe me a fiver.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that we’re not in the loo then,” John returned with a bit of a laugh.

He turned to look at the boy, to get a good look this time, but all he could see was that tattoo and that blasted white stick rolling around in his mouth beneath the pressure of his tongue. He looked away and added champagne to the No More List, right up there beneath family weddings.

“How are you even working here?” he asked, his eyes falling to the green Converse. “You’re not exactly the poster child for service workers, now, are you?”

“Third shift. They’re desperate. Most everyone else are idiots. They call me when they’re out of their depth, which, in the food industry, is almost always.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He could feel the laughter bubbling up from deep within. God, how long had it been since he’d had a good laugh? How long had it been that anything he’d even remotely associated with Sherlock.....

“So what does that make you, then?” he asked, more for his own benefit than for the kid’s. “A consulting busboy?” Even as the words came out, they were garbled by laughter. His shoulders shook with it until tears streamed down his face.

“Actually, it makes me the nephew of the man who owns the company.”

‘Bugger.’

He tossed the towel into the sink and walked further into the kitchen. If he was going to have a meltdown, he’d be damned if he was going to do it in front of some teenager with a lolly in his mouth.

But one thought led to another and when he looked up to see the kid’s adam apple at eye level, he lost it.

“What are you doing with that thing in your mouth?! Uncle or no, it can’t be up to standards.”

John caught a movement out of the corner of his eye as he leaned up against one of the  walk-ins, only to find himself sliding to the floor.

“Keeps me from smoking.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” John retorted automatically. “I’d tell you that it stunts your growth....” He looked up, to an eye full of knees and the one unused earbud dangling free. “...but that probably wouldn’t mean much to a kid like you.” He closed his eyes. “If you’re addicted, you should consider patching, it would be better for your teeth in any regard.”

He felt the kid slide down next to him, but he didn’t open his eyes. It was nice like this. Better this way. Like this, he could almost imagine....

“Patching? What do you mean?” The ‘what’ sounding suspiciously like a ‘wot’ - under what John could only imagine was the effort of talking around the damned sucker. 

The sucker that apparently, He. Could. Not. Stop. Thinking. About.

“Nicotine patch.” John reached into his jacket and pulled out one of Sherlock’s old patches. “Here. It’s better than smoking and you won’t have to walk around with that...” John grimaced. “... _thing_ in your mouth.”

“You object to me having ‘things’ in my mouth?” He sounded amused and there was no mistaking the meaning beneath the rolling vowels and the soft consonants.

“Just put on the patch.” John groaned. “Or not.” He cut himself off just in time from saying something about losing all his teeth, because given the direction this conversation was going, he might find himself being arrested for solicitation and corruption of a minor, among other things.

He heard the rustle of material, then a weight fell across his lap, in the valley between his knees and his stomach.

“You do it.”

John opened his eyes. There was a long pale and very thin arm laying treacherously near his groin. The skin was nearly translucent and the blue veins underneath were as easy to read as a street map. He found himself wanting to look for track marks, but he didn’t dare.

‘This is not Sherlock,’ he reminded himself harshly as he watched the boy’s pulse flutter at his wrist. Taking a deep breath, he opened the nicotine patch. Before adhering it, he allowed himself to brush his fingers across the delicate skin. If asked, he’s sure that he could make something up about making sure that the surface was clean and uptake.

“Do you patch, then?”

John startled. He jerked his fingers away feeling like he’d just gotten caught with this hand in the cookie jar.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. 

“You smoke?”

“No.” John shook his head, allowing his eyes to fall closed. He thought of the times that he’d come home only to find Sherlock lying on the couch, half dressed in his dressing down and silk pants, arms covered in plaster. ‘It’s a three patch problem, John,’ he’d say, his eyes sparkling, even though his voice clearly said, ‘bored.’ 

“No,” he repeated. “It’s just something I do, sometimes.”

The boy’s arm shifted in his lap; his hand coming to rest on John’s far knee.

“You all right?”

John nodded.

“There’s porter in the back if you’re tired of champagne.”

John snorted. “I think I’m done. But thanks.”

A moment passed, then two. John drifted, if it weren’t for the occasional strain of the latest Celine Dion filtering through the silence, he could almost imagine that he was back at Baker Street, back with Sherlock, back before Richard Brook....

“I feel like I should do something for you,” the boy said, his voice husky. John would've liked to believe that it was desire, but it was undoubtedly the nicotine hitting his system. He’d heard it too many times from Sherlock to pretend it was anything more than it was. 

He also imagined that he could hear the boy’s tongue moving across the surface of the candy. And that way lay the path to madness. 

One, he was not Sherlock. Two, John had never even been with a man; sure he’d been tempted - every day of the last two years of his life he’d been tempted, but the wanting and the having had never come to pass. Three, John was old enough to be his father and then some. 

‘Not that that’s stopping Lestrade,’ John’s inner-Sherlock chimed in.

‘True,’ John acknowledged. And, truth be told, if the busboy of the Green Converse, the dangling earbud and the lollipop from hell had been one of the bubbly, bedecked bridesmaids - or even one of the bartender’s decked out as tree sprites - chances are he’d be halfway to heaven right now. Hypocrite.

“Do you realize you said that out loud?”

John’s head snapped up. “What?” He stared, mesmerized by the white stick that bobbed up and down. “Could you _please_ get that out of your mouth?” he asked. “Please.” 

Although half of the boy’s face was obscured by green tinted bangs, John could still see the smirk. ‘Bastard.’

John flushed. Good lord, he was actually sweating. He was also hard.

“It’s just I don’t see how you could possibly even think with that thing in your mouth.”

“You’d be surprised the things I can do with this thing in my mouth.” The hand on his knee slid up his thigh and took his own. “I’m actually very good with my mouth,” he whispered, followed up by an outrageous slurp. “I’m particularly good with my tongue.”

John swallowed. “Are you trying to pick me up?” 

The low chuckle hit John just below the belt and danced up his spine like fingers on a keyboard - or across the strings of a violin.

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” John admitted, his voice shaking. “Oh, God, yes.”

 

Less than two minutes later, John’s back was against the door of the walk in, his trousers around his ankles and his cock deep into the throat of a kid whose name he didn’t really even care to know. 

All he did know was that this kid - God he hoped he was slightly more than a kid - sucked cock like a pro. Greedy, dirty, and wet. John tried not to think about how he hadn’t used a condom.... Nor how all the times that he’s said, “I’m not gay!” kept sounding in his ears like a chorus of mocking birds. 

Warm hands slid between him and the door, cupping his ass, squeezing his cheeks. One long finger gently probing deeper.

“Oh my God!” John exclaimed, as he found himself thrusting forward into the hot warmth of the kid’s mouth. He tried not to push, really, but.... 

“Don’t mind me,” the boy encouraged, his tongue ghosting around the glans as he spoke. His fingers sliding deftly along the perineum.

John bit his lower lip. His head crashed into the cooler.

“Now, none of that.” The kid admonished, pulling him even deeper, the muscles of his throat gripping as he swallowed around John’s cock. “God, I’d love to fuck you,” he growled, his voice much lower now that his mouth was properly full.

John’s butt clenched around questing fingers and he could feel the orgasm pooling in the base of his spine. He grabbed the kid’s hair, only to suffer a stab of disappointment when his hands landed, not in the soft curls that he was expecting, but in thick, straight strands slicked down with product.

One last push, or maybe it was the tongue just so, that did it, but his stomach rushed up to meet this throat and his entire body felt like it turned inside out. He quite literally saw stars as all of the noise in the room disappeared beneath the sounds of the kid sucking him down and his own sobs. 

‘Good God, was he crying?’

John’s knees buckled and he slid slowly back down to the floor. 

He felt the kid lean over; he could feel his breath on his face. He could smell himself on the air between them.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” John muttered, eyes closed. He reached out and laid a hand on the kid’s face, tracing the subtle contours of his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

Soft fingers skated across his face, lingering at the edges of his eyelids. 

‘Funny.’ He found himself thinking that they didn’t feel like the hands of someone who spent a lot of time doing dishes. He really had spent too much time with Sherlock, even though it hadn’t been nearly enough. Never enough.

“That was....” He really had no words for what that was. ‘Amazing?’ Didn’t even come close. By far the best blow job he’d ever had. His mind immediately went back to Sherlock and the many nights he’d spent sitting at the kitchen table with a pen in his mouth. 

Groaning at the thought of what might could have been, John gasped when lips ghosted across his. Unlike what had just passed, this seemed so much more.... Tentative? Intimate? Surprised at how much he wanted it, he opened his mouth, granting access and they stayed there, kissing - him, bare ass naked on the floor - until he heard the DJ call for the last dance.

Just the impetus he needed, John pulled away, but he found himself unable to look at the kid in front of him. Instead, he just reached for his belt, his eyes low. “Jesus, I’m sorry, should I?” 

He saw the lolly, where it lay discarded on the floor.

“It’s fine,” the kid said. He sounded embarrassed. “That ship sailed long ago,” he admitted, motioning to his groin, which was suspiciously damp. 

John reached out, touching the semen soaked material and felt a completely irrational burst of pride. “Well, maybe next time?” he said, hoping that it sounded like the joke it almost was.

He watched the boy’s chin move up and down, before he stood up in one graceful movement, leaving John with a view of his knees that were no longer white. 

“Well, I really must be going.” A long hand descended, and John reached up, only to find himself pulled into a quick, tight hug. “Thank you for the patch and...” he cleared his throat. “...for the distraction. I hope you enjoy the rest of the wedding,” he said as he grabbed a jacket that had been left carelessly across a rack of clean plates.

“Don’t you have to finish cleaning up?” John asked, not sure how to say that he wasn’t quite ready for the kid to leave.

“Boss’s nephew, remember?”

John nodded, as he pulled up his trousers and tucked himself back in.

“But I don’t even know your name,” he called, just as the boy opened a heavy door that looked like it entered out into the alley.

The kid stopped and, just for a moment, John thought he might actually return. 

As half of his face came into view - the half with the tattoo -  he winked. “You know more than you think you do.”

John blinked, his head spinning. “What?”

“Go get your friend,” the kid grinned. “Before the karaoke starts.”

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely unbetad, so all errors are totally mine. When my beta gets back (she's traveling), I'm sure she'll make it that much better! And, lest I forget, I own nothing!


End file.
